


Beneath the Pines

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood, Campfires, Camping Fic, Cuddling, Demons, Fighting, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Night Terrors, Pre-Series, Rutting, Sibling Incest, Sleepy!Sam, Tickling, Violence, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, comforting!dean, outdoors, roasting marshmallows, tent!sex (no penetration)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean go on a camping trip to the pines with three of Dean's friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Motoring

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
> So yay, new story is happening. I feel like it's important for me to have one going every season so, here it is. Spring story !  
> Wincest to come, obviously.  
> Kind of a short chapter for now but it's because posting will motivate me to write more. :p
> 
> Photo courtesy of [wearecomrades](http://wearecomrades.tumblr.com) that was pretty much my inspo.

It was the first time Sam rode shotgun. Well, the time he fractured his wrist and Dad had to speed all the way to the emergency room didn't count. Plus, it was different when Dean was driving. The air felt lighter. Smelled different, too, even though Dean liked to wear Dad's old leather jacket that was two sizes too big and the same brand of cologne because it made him feel older. But it smelt like opportunity, like rolled up sleeping bags and crisp morning air that seeped through the cracks in the windows of the old beaten up chevy.

Driving with Dean meant abandoning their name, their duties to their family. It was singing louder than the tinny car speakers to 80s hair-bands on the radio. It was Sam sticking his hand out of the window and feeling the push of the cool spring wind running through his fingers.

It was freedom.

And it was the two of them.

 

But let's start at the beginning.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

"It's not a big deal, Dad. I'm just gonna go camping with some buddies," Dean's packing several t-shirts into a large brown duffle, not bothering to fold any of them. Sam stands watching, suppressing the urge to speak some form of protest at Dean's sudden decision to abandon him. He'd rather chew off his own arm than stay here with Dad while Dean goes on some exciting hike in the woods with friends Sam's never met but is fairly certain would be cool. The type of guys that always have a good time, no matter what they're doing. They could be eating breakfast and it'd be a riot. Kind of like Dean. There was this one time Dean made pancakes in the shape of goofy looking faces that reminded Sam of the shrunken heads of the Jivaroan tribes. He even gave them X's for eyes and stitched up lips — and when they put blueberry jam on their foreheads it made them look like they were oozing brains.

"It _is_ a big deal, Dean! Who do you think's gonna look after Sammy?" Dad booms, temper clearly rising.

They don't fight too often, Dean's 18-year-old head usually too compliant to butt with Dad's, but when they do it always makes Sam's stomach butterflies jitter around.

"He can't stay with you?"

"Guys," Sam tries to cut in, though he knows no one will be listening anyway. "I don't _need_ looking after; I'm fourteen!"

As he suspected, they barely turn their heads.

" _No,_ Dean, he can't stay with me. I'm going on a hunt, remember? I _told_ you that." Dad sounds tired, like a toy soldier running on low battery. He's been wearing more or less the same thing for four days, and his knuckles are caked in grease from trying to fix the leaking motor mount in his pickup truck out front.

"He can come with me," Sam hears Dean suggest, and it's like a choir starts singing the Hallelujah chorus in his head and he can see the sun parting through the clouds above his head. "Sammy, you wanna come with me?"

He's never nodded quicker in his life.

Dad sighs. "That's not a solution, Dean."

Dean seems to try to bite his words back but they stumble out anyway. "Just this once, Dad, I just want to do something for... for myself." And after they've been said, his eyes look like they're trying to reel the words back in.

Dad takes his time answering. Like he knows the uncertainty will drive Dean crazy. He rubs at his temples and sighs for like, the fifth time since this conversation started. "Fine. Go."

"Dad, I'm..." Dean reddens, searching for words that appear to have fallen on the ground.

"Dean. Go," Dad cuts them like a knife, concise and decisive. "Just make sure you're both protected." It's not exactly approval but it's the best they're gonna get from Dad.

"I will. I promise." Dean nods firmly.

It isn't until Dad leaves to continue working on the truck that Dean shoots a wink Sam's way and zips up his duffle bag. It's like he was able to _sense_ how badly Sam wanted Dean to take him with him.

"What're you waiting for, kiddo?" Dean's chin nods. "Go pack your things."

 

It's a whole day's trip, Dean informs him, and good sturdy shoes will come in handy because the hike to the campground is slightly up-hill. And it's not one of those sissy sites where there's a chalet on the next lot that you can wash up and do your business in. It's all outdoors, nothing but wilderness for miles and miles, so Dean tells Sam to pack warm clothes and as many layers as he can find because _it ain't summer yet_.

 

They load up the Impala by mid-day. There's a long drive ahead so the front pockets of their bags are stashed full with snacks Dean made sure to prepare the night before.

Sam waits in the car while Dean and Dad exchange a parting conversation. He fingers the leather seat beside and around him, heart pounding excitedly. He's gone places with Dean alone before, but nothing like this. Nothing that resembled a _vacation,_ something that holds the potential of being a really fun time. It delights him deeply that all he has to do is extend an arm to feel the steering wheel in all its steel shiny glory; the fact that _Dean's_ going to be driving and not Dad ignites little thrill sparks in his pubescent body.

And just like that, they're on the road like a couple of vagabonds, ready to leave the world they knew behind them. Sam secretly wishes they weren't going back.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

They make a stop in the next town over to meet with Dean's friends.

"They're really cool guys, Sammy, you'll see," Dean's telling Sam over the voice of Alan Fitzgerald singing _Don't Tell Me You Love Me_ through the tape deck.

Sam doesn't doubt it. It's been a while since either of them made any friends and he's excited to spend some time with people that don't know what _salting and burning_ means. Apparently Dean met them at a bar, they shot some pool and talked about the thrill of hiking and camping and the pleasure of _nature walks_. Dean had called them crazy nature junkies but apparently they had convinced him to give it a shot. This surprised Sam more than the fact that Dean had _made friends_ at a bar instead of coming home with another black eye from having lost control of his smart mouth. Anyway, Sam thinks whoever appreciates nature is someone he would want to be friends with too.

When they pull up to the house, Sam spots three older boys packing duffles and backpacks and sleeping bags into a gleaming red Mazda.

He follows Dean's lead and gets out of the car. It's a residential neighborhood, a lot nicer than the one they're squatting in temporarily, complete with front lawn and picket fence leading to the backyard.

They exchange animated greetings, clapping each other's backs, already cracking jokes and generally being as cool as Sam had predicted.

"This is my little brother, Sammy," Dean introduces him and the attention shifts.

"Actually, it's just Sam." He's always been awkward, as Dean so lovingly points out all too often, but as he stands there and instinctively avoids making eye contact, he realizes the extent of it. Luckily, they don't seem to take any notice.

"Hey, Sam," one of them says. He's tall, with dark hair and a broad, friendly grin.

"That's Matt," Dean comments as the guy extends a hand. Sam shakes it, only then noticing how sweaty his palms probably are. Once again, Matt doesn't seem to notice.

"Hi," Sam nods and manages a smile.

"And that's Jerry and Scott, they're brothers too," Dean gestures over to the two other boys who've got fairer hair and look like they could be twins. Apparently, though, as Dean informs him, one of them is twenty years old.

They ask him how old he is; _fourteen_ , and if he's ever done this sort of thing before; _yeah, they've pitched a few tents with their Dad or their uncle but never for three nights in a row, and never on their own (Dean gives him a face)._

 

The oldest of the brothers, Jerry, and Matt are the funny ones, Sam soon discovers. Once on the road, they communicate from their respective cars through these new walkie talkies that the brothers just got and they keep making jokes about things they see on the road. Dean let Sam hold the walkie talkie so he's been talking to Matt about school and soccer. Whenever Dean wants to speak Sam holds the mic up to his chin and they continue on like this for several hours until Sam starts to get tired. It's not even dusk yet but the rumble of the Impala and long stretches of road have always made him drowsy.

He hadn't realized he'd nodded off until he feels Dean flick his knee and his eyes blink open.

"You tired?" Dean asks, eyes darting from Sam back to the road.

Sam straightens, noticing that the two cars are now on a narrower, winding road with rocks stretching up high on either side.

"A bit."

"We should be there in about an hour and a half," Dean says. "Have something to eat."

 

The rest of the drive is spent munching on tortilla chips (Dean's definition of "healthy" is anything that doesn't leave smudges of grease on your fingers) and head-nodding to the tapes Dean consistently switches ever hour. They share the bag of chips and almost finish it so that it's more of a late afternoon starchy lunch than a snack. Sam finger-feeds them to Dean every time he utters out _chip_ which eventually progresses into Dean simply sticking out his chin every time he wants another.

By the time Sam folds the bag away his fingers are damp anyway from Dean's saliva; feeding him chip after chip for half an hour left Sam with a warm, wet tingly feeling in his fingertips.

 

Soon the sky deepens into a paler shade of purple, sharp mountains just visible past miles and miles of trees.

Sam relaxes into the seat, thinking how he wouldn't mind if the drive just took a _little_ bit longer.

 

٭ ٭ ٭


	2. Higher Grounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys' first night at the campground

It's a hike up to the campground, that much Sam was expecting. He wasn't, however, expecting it to take _two whole hours._

It's no secret that he's the smallest one in the group; no matter how hard he tries to actually _enjoy_ the mandatory Winchester work-out and training sessions, he's always preferred to spend his hours with a good book, filling his head with knowledge (god, Dean was right, he _was_ a dork). He's been carrying his backpack and sleeping bag and one of the three packs of food Dean packed for them for just over an hour and he keeps wondering how much friggin _higher_ this mountain is.

"Want me to carry one of those for ya, Sammy?" Dean throws a look back at him, pulling his chain. But even if he was being serious, Sam wouldn't _want_ Dean to carry his stuff for him. He's not about to show these guys that he's a wimp, not that they'd care about that (Sam notes from experience), but he feels the need to prove himself in the group. He isn't about to make his older brother carry his stuff for him. Even if he _is_ trailing behind.

So he waits it out even though his legs are starting to burn and his shoulders are probably going to be sore for the entirety of the trip.

At the hour and forty-five minute marker, Matt asks him how he's doing "back there."

He says he's fine even though the pain in his shoulders has progressed to a constant, burning numbness and his legs feel like they're on auto-pilot (it's better when he's not thinking about it). He can't catch his breath, his lungs over-strained, but the air up here _does_ feel cleaner. He's sure once they stop, _if_ they ever stop, he'll be okay.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

The sun's almost down by the time they reach the campground, disappearing behind the snow-peaked mountaintops that are still visible beyond the tops of the evergreens encompassing them.

The campground's a public site, a clearing in the woods about thirty yards in length. There's a scattering of tents at the north end that most likely belongs to another group of campers using the same ground. Apparently it's not the first time Matt and the brothers have camped here, so they know the ins and outs. _This is a good spot,_ the sun won't hit it in the morning so it won't bother the "sleepy heads" who like to sleep past eight.

They begin by pitching their tents, since they're losing the light and it's probably not a good idea to wait till it's dark. Dean borrowed a tent from Dad; it's big enough to fit two people comfortably overnight which is why they're using it but they realize they're at a disadvantage because they've never put it up before. When Dean pulls an olive-colored mass out of a black plastic sack, they both kind of stare at it for a while, expecting it to make itself.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Dean sighs, crouching down and opening the material up. He sifts through the rest of the contents of the bag getting a feel for the different equipment provided.

Sam glances over at Scott and Jerry who seem like they've done this a thousand times before (which they probably have), but what's even more impressive is the fact that Matt's got his own single tent and is already halfway done putting it up. He's like one of those wind-up robots that has only one task and knows how to do it remarkably well.

"Sam?" He glances back down and Dean's shoving an armful of thin poles at him. "Here, you figure this out, math boy. I'm gonna set down the base."

Sam examines them skeptically at first, then, after a few moments' hesitation, he turns them over and considers each one.

Luckily he remembers instructions from his uncle Bobby the last time he and Dean went camping, unlike Dean who was too busy fondling the hunting rifles. He remembers the basics, he just needs to figure out what's what.

It's pretty simple after he remembers; connecting the poles and then inserting them into the sleeves on the tent Dean's miraculously managed to lay down correctly. It's one of those simple tents where the fly sheet and the inner tent are attached, allowing for easy assembly.

"Now what?" Dean stands watching while Sam straightens the material out.

Sam looks over the mass, contemplating. "I think we have to insert the ends of the poles into these holes here, in these little tabs," he remembers the rest now, though uncle Bobby's tent was slightly different in some respects, the general mechanics were the same.

"Okay," Dean helps with the poles and once that's done all there's left to do is peg everything which Sam recalls well.

And just like that, it's up. And it's a beaut. Green and huge and welcoming. Sam's wide satisfied grin is mirrored by Dean, who then shovels his sleeping bag up in his arms and tosses it inside the hollow tent.

"Good job, rookies!" They hear Matt call from several yards away. The other tents are both up, the bags of their belongings safely stored inside. "Hey, Jerry and I are going to go look for firewood. Dean, you wanna come?"

"Sure, man," Dean wipes his hands on his trousers, winks at Sam and then takes off with Matt and Jerry into the cluster of pines.

Sam considers crawling into the tent and maybe setting up his sleeping bag or arranging their food, anything that takes a lot of time so he doesn't have to make awkward small talk with somebody he doesn't know, but the voice in his head (which is seeming to belong to Dean more and more with every passing day) tells him to stop being so awkward and just _talk to people_ already like a normal person.

 

Scott's a pretty cool guy, Sam soon discovers. He talks with his head bowed a lot that tells Sam he's reserved, if not at least a little shy. But he's funny, too, and has a really great sense of humor that Sam finds it easy to relate to. Like, he's quick-witted and sarcastic in the most modest way possible, and has already made Sam laugh out loud at least five times at jokes he's not even aware he's making because he's just so natural at it. Sam learns that Scott likes dogs and has one named Scarlett; she's the family German Shepherd that's been around for ten years. Sam says he'd love to meet her when they get back to Middletown.

They talk until the sun's completely down. While they wait for the guys Scott fabricates a battery-run lantern that he sets down in front of them so they're not in complete darkness. They sit cross-legged and discuss current events and upcoming movies in the little pool of light until the others get back.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

It's just over an hour before they arrive with the firewood, but Sam honestly enjoyed Scott's company. He seems like the kind of guy Sam would be best friends with if they were in the same grade.

 

Their first night is spent around the fire, eating sandwiches and talking about anything and everything. They're an easy bunch of guys to get along with, so the conversation's never dry. Dean and the guys drink bottles of this home-brewed beer that was made by Matt's dad. He apparently runs his own brewery in their basement and sells it out to friends and family. From what Sam's gathered by how much praise the drink's gotten, it's really freakin' good (he was offered a sip but refused).

The other campers came back from an all-day hike and introduced themselves to their group. They're two married couples who also seem like great people to Sam, real outdoorsy types with a love for life. They made a joke about how families who hike together stay together and Jerry agreed, pointing out that there're two sets of brothers here and everybody laughed.

They joined them at the fire and were offered some beer.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

Time doesn't seem to matter up here. When you're in the woods, you sleep late and wake early. It's because you're trying to get as much out of one day as you can. Sam loves it. It feels right to him. Out here, it's like every minute counts as something to be treasured.

By the time they're in their respective tents and sleeping bags, he's not sure how late it is but it doesn't really matter.

Dean falls asleep as soon as he hits the pillow, as usual. Sam's never been able to sleep that fast, always admired Dean for it. But he could tell because Dean's breathing changes. Gets heavier and significantly more nasally. Once Sam hears that, it's easy for him to start to drift off. Hey, some people have night lights...

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

There's a low, deep rumble. Sam's sitting up, looking around the tent. It's still dark out, his eyes are doing that funny speckled thing. His vision is obstructed by the blackness of night in the woods but he could make out the top and sides of the tent as it was when he went to sleep, with the natural light of the moon hitting it and giving it a faint glow.

The rumble grows louder, Sam squints and tries to cover his ears or maybe wiggle his finger inside because maybe he's just hearing things, after all, Dean's still fast asleep. Sam glances at the sleeping bag next to him and Dean's completely submerged, his head buried under rolls of taffeta. He meditates over waking him but decides against it in case he really is just hearing things. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

But then he sees a shadow, outside the tent. Immediately he panics, and stupid as he is, he freezes. He tries to rapidly recall what he's been taught so far in Winchester combat-training, but he only begun three years ago and still has a lot to learn apparently. Considering he can't even _move._ No, wait. Something's wrong. He really, _really_ can't move.

The rumble turns into a high-pitched, screeching ringing that Sam honest to god _feels_ the vibrations of, like it's rattling the tent, the ground, the world.

The shadow unzips the tent, the sound of the zipper matching the screeching in its intensity, and actually _comes inside_. Sam's paralyzed terror makes it hard for him to breathe. He can't move, can't speak, can't shout Dean's name, he's choking on air, certain it's his last breath.

It's _Scott._

But it's not Scott. He looks like the embodiment of evil, crawling on hands and knees into the tent right up to Sam with hollow empty holes for eyes... and then he _grins,_ his shoulders slinking back and forth and the screeching sound, like nails on a chalkboard, pierces his eardrums. Scott's open mouth stretches and stretches as he gets closer, like he's about to swallow Sam whole, and then, _finally_ , Sam can scream. He screams so loud he jolts.

He jolts awake.

And then he can _breathe_ again and _hear_ again and Dean's beside him, he can _see_ him, stirring awake. Every part of Sam's body is drenched in sweat and it's like his heart is catching up on beats it missed because it's racing at 75 miles per hour, his lungs straining and wheezing.

"Hey," Dean sits up, his voice gentle and raspy. "Sammy, you okay?"

Sam gasps, trying to catch his breath. His eyes are watering, vision going blurry. "I... I don't know... Scott, he..."

"What?" Dean pushes his sleeping bag down, the rustle of it amplified in Sam's ears. "Sammy, it was a dream..."

It's a weird thing, because Sam _knows_ Dean's right, that it was just a dream, but he can't help but dwell on the resonance of how _real_ it felt. "I know... I..."

"C'mere," Dean leans in and rubs Sam's back soothingly. He's used to this, to Sam having nightmares that jolt him out of sleep. It's actually a pretty common thing in the Winchester household. Has been for several years now. Sam would, in the middle of the night, wake up screaming or sometimes crying, and Dean would be the closest thing to grab for comfort. He got so used to it that on nights that felt particularly strange to Sam, he'd sleep with Dean knowing the nightmares would be coming. Dean never questioned it, just fell asleep next to him and that was enough of a comfort for Sam that the nightmares would cease for that night.

He hasn't ever had one this bad though, where he felt like he was being grasped by the cold fingers of death and was helpless to escape it. He's practically shaking still with how terrifying it was.

He lets himself fall into Dean's embrace, the warmth of his sturdy arms supporting him and bringing him back to the waking world.

They sleep in one sleeping bag that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, watched a lot of camping videos for this because I don't know the first thing about pitching a tent but Sam apparently does hahha.  
> Anyway, safe to say, now I want to go try out camping this summer. I've already talked to my "outdoorsy" best friend haha.. I may be converting.


	3. I'd Rather be a Forest than a Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title change guys! What was previously _(Not even) the Hollow Month of March_ is now _Beneath the Pines_ , I think it suits the tone I have going for this fic more than previous. :] Enjoy!

They're aware it's morning by the sounds. Birds chirping melodiously as the cool wind of spring rustles the needles of the pines; it's a soundtrack Sam wishes he could wake up to every morning instead of the popping sound of a crappy coffee maker and a tiny old television set playing old Westerns.

Good thing the guys packed proper breakfast food — all Dean brought was a couple of granola bars and those individual mini cereal boxes.

Jerry stirs up some oatmeal over a tiny burner, enough for all of them. Sam doesn't know what he put in it, magic delicious dust or something, but it's the best thing he's ever tasted and it's only oatmeal for god's sake; sweet but with a zing of cinnamon and a handful of fresh berries stirred in. It's exactly what he was in the mood for.

Scott's nowhere to be seen during breakfast, apparently he went on some walk early in the morning and hasn't returned yet. The four of them have a good meal— well, the three of them anyway; Dean insists on eating his Fruit Loops instead of "mush," while discussing the events they've planned for the day. A hike around lunch, further up the mountain (Sam suspects it'll at least be easier this time around without having to carry all of their possessions along with them) where there's a clearing that "looks out over the entire world" (according to Matt). At night, they've planned another campfire complete with s'mores and card games that Sam's super excited about.

Sam's tasked with sandwich-making duty while the others make sure things are prepared for the hike and get more firewood.

Scott returns from his walk a little while later. Sam immediately looks up and gets this sickening inside-out feeling in his stomach. He doesn't know why — the dream last night was just that — a stupid dream. Scott's one of the nicest people he's met in a while and he'd hate for his weird paranoia to ruin any relationship he could have with him.

There's a space next to Sam on the thick flannel blanket he's laid down, and Scott takes no time in filling it.

"Hey, whatcha doin'?" Scott grins, eyeing the makings of sandwiches laid out in front of Sam. There's turkey, ham, lettuce, and mustard that Sam is piling neatly onto slices of bread.

Sam's chest gains weight, this heavy dreadful feeling behind it. _Goddamn it, what the hell!_ "Um... Just making some sandwiches. For the hike." He offers up a weak smile, hoping Scott won't notice his inappropriate uncomfortableness.

"Cool, I'll help." He starts grabbing the completed sandwiches, taking up the knife sitting there and evenly slicing them into perfect triangles. He flashes Sam a broad grin, eerie glint in his eye catching Sam's. "Don't want you hurting yourself."

Sam feels like saying _I'm fourteen,_ _I can cut my own sandwiches,_ but there's something about the way Scott's speaking; so forward, so different from the day before, Sam just nods and let's him do whatever the hell he wants.

They continue with the sandwiches in the most palpable awkward silence Sam's ever sat through, Sam keeps eyeing the knife Scott's using to slice the bread almost waiting for him to jab it in his chest at any given moment. _What the fuck was wrong with him? Scott was nice! Scott was cool! Remember yesterday, how funny Scott was? Why was he counting the minutes praying Dean would get back? What was_ wrong _with him?_

"Hey," Scott nudges Sam's arm; actually _touches_ him, and it sends a shiver running down his whole arm to the tips of his fingers.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, squirting some mustard on to (thank god) the last sandwich.

"So there's this lake, not too far from where we are, and, y'know, we often head up the mountain to check it out." Scott's saying, putting the last two triangles of sandwich into a plastic bag. "There's this spot where you can jump off, and the jump's pretty far but it's safe, y'know. It's great fun." Sam just nods cautiously, squishing the sandwich together and handing it over. He watches as Scott takes his time slicing this one.

"I think Dean would love it. It's probably too dangerous for you, though. But I think Dean's gonna really enjoy it. Whaddya think, kiddo?" His smile is sincere, for the most part. Sam starts to put the things away, back in their respective Tupperwares, where they'll go back to sitting in the ice bucket that serves as their fridge.

"Sounds cool, I guess?" To be honest Sam's not sure what the hell he's talking about or why, maybe it's just small talk, maybe Scott noticed the awkwardness and was trying to make up for it. Best to entertain him.

"Cool," Scott smiles, zipping up the last sandwich and standing. He brushes himself off and claps Sam on the back. "Teamwork, right?"

Sam manages a smile. "Yeah."

"I'm gonna go get ready for the hike. Later, Sammy."

A twinge of anxiety steps back in, creeping up his throat. "It's _Sam._ "

Dean returns with the others just in time to witness the annoyed glare on Sam's face that he's not even trying to hide anymore now that Scott's disappeared into his tent.

"What's up?" Dean steps over a few pots and the cooler to get to Sam, setting down the firewood beside him on the ground. He's noticed Sam's uneasiness, for sure.

Sam just shakes his head. "I don't know... Scott." He doesn't want to reveal too much about his the way his paranoid brain is overreacting, he knows Dean won't get it.

Dean looks around, probably for Scott who's nowhere to be seen. His eyes widen. "What about him?" Suddenly it's like they're in on this huge conspiracy, Sam gets the feeling the way Dean's exaggeratedly leaning in and whispering that he's mocking him.

He rolls his eyes. "Nevermind. I don't know why I tell you anything."

Dean falls on his butt and rests his elbows on his knees. His face relaxes and he sighs. "This about your dream last night? Sam, I told you —"

"I know, _it was just a dream._ " Sam picks up a twig on the ground in front of it and starts fidgeting with it, prodding at the dirt.

Dean blinks, biting his lip. He does that when he's concerned. "Yeah."

"I know," Sam nods. "I know. I just can't shake this bad feeling I get when I look at him and when he's near me."

"Okay," Dean listens, watching Sam break the twig in half.

"It's like he's different. It's like... something's wrong."

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know."

"Okay." Dean nods, accepting Sam's words. "We'll keep an eye out for him. Kay?"

Sam stops fidgeting and looks at Dean. He takes a breath and relaxes. "Kay."

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

The hike, as Sam predicted, was a lot easier this time around and certainly more enjoyable. The spot they rested at to eat lunch had quite the view — from where they sat they could see the lake that Scott had mentioned, more clusters of evergreens and beyond that astounding lines of jagged mountains that appeared a lot closer than they had on the drive up.

Scott was even okay, and despite Sam (and Dean's) insistence on _keeping an eye out for him_ he did nothing out of the ordinary.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

At night, they build up another campfire and put marshmallows on sticks and drink beer. Dean plays a game of crazy eights with Jerry at one of the picnic tables set up beside the fire while Sam makes his third s'more and talks with Matt about girls. He asks him if he's ever had a girlfriend ( _yeah right_ ) or if he's ever liked anyone before ( _not really_ ). Sam avoids both subjects by shaking his head and inconveniently blushing a lot.

"Why not?" Matt grins, poking his stick further in to the fire, marshmallow puffing up and golding. "You're a pretty cute kid, I'm sure girls would fall for you in a heartbeat."

Sam half rolls his eyes and half smiles stupidly. "Yeah, right."

"What? I'm serious!" Matt retrieves four graham crackers and hands two to Sam.

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sure these scrawny limbs would drive the girls _wild,_ " Sam flails his arms pointedly and then proceeds to sticking his marshmallow in between the cookies and chocolate.

"Scrawny? C'mon, man, I would _not_ call you scrawny. Trust me, you've got nothing to worry about. You're gonna grow into 'em." Matt leans in, whispering in Sam's direction as if letting him in on a secret. "You're probably even going to outgrow your brother."

Sam scoffs. Now he _knows_ he's full of shit. He laughs, regardless. "No way."

Matt chuckles along with him, popping the whole s'more into his mouth in one shot.

Sam licks some of the sticky marshmallow off his fingers and watches Dean off across the fire shuffling cards for a new game. He's laughing about something with Jerry, huge grin on his face. It's been a while since Sam saw him this happy. It makes him feel warm, and not just because he's next to the fire. He knows this is good for them. That they should be doing this kind of thing — it's kind of like eloping — more often.

"So what's the deal with you and your brother?" Matt asks with a mouthful, noticing Sam's gaze had drifted.

"Hm?" Sam glances at Matt. "Oh, what do you mean?"

Matt swallows. "I mean like, you two seem pretty close. It's not very often you see two brothers get along that well."

Sam shrugs and takes a bite of s'more. "What about Scott and Jerry?"

"Well they get along, sure, but they do their own thing a lot."

Sam watches Dean take a sip of beer, holding his cards up and considering which to put down. He's in nothing but a thin cotton henley. Sam had gotten cold on the hike and Dean lent him his heavy zip-up sweater with the soft material in the hood that Sam loves. He probably just forgot about being cold, if he even was. Dean was always warm.

Sam sighs. "He... he takes care of me a lot. Y'know..."

Matt nods, understanding. He cracks open a bottle of beer and takes a swig.

"Our Dad isn't always around, but... But Dean's always there." Sam faintly smiles.

Matt curls his lips in when he swallows. "That's good... S'good big brother."

Across the fire Dean laughs, throwing his head back, and slams a card down. "Pick up eight, bitch!"

Sam grins. "The best."

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

They lost track of the hours. Nighttime had that effect on you when you were out in the woods with nobody around, nobody to tell you you should be in bed. Sleep was something you could choose, and Sam wanted to be up all night.

They all retired to their tents about an hour ago, but Dean brought the deck of cards with him so on Sam's insistence they've been playing a game of Snap for the majority of it. Or was it two games? Three? Whatever, they've all merged into one long game and Sam's winning.

"Just face it, I've got quicker hands," Sam snorts, he's so slaphappy with exhaustion he feels like he's drunk. Drunk on the outdoors and happiness and sugar.

"No way!" Dean's raspy for-real-drunk voice comes out and it only excites Sam further. "I will never admit defeat."

Sam bounces and anticipates Dean's next card, but when he places it down it has no association with the card under it.

Sam's turn next and he turns over a two, same as the two of hearts that's under it.

" _Snap!_ " Sam calls it, palm slapping over the pile excitedly. He gives a hearty laugh that would surely wake up anyone who was sleeping, if any of the other guys actually _were_ sleeping, and adds the stack of cards to his growing pile.

"Alright, alright," Dean rearranges his thinning pile, not willing to give up even though he's only got what looks to be like five cards left. "Again. Go."

 

Dean runs out of cards before they could even call the next Snap. Sam proudly sweeps all the cards in with exaggeratedly broad arms, grinning from ear to ear the whole time.

"Hah! You lose!" Sam rocks in place, arranging the cards in his too-hyper hands.

"You cheated," Dean says without much conviction. "My little brother's a cheater."

Sam only laughs at him, careening forward with his body, squishing his face into Dean's knee. "You can't even cheat in this game!"

Dean surges forward, suddenly all prodding-hands and they're finding their way to Sam's sensitive crooks like under his armpits and along the bones of his hips, wiggling and tickling. "Well you found a way!" He teases, talking through his teeth.

Sam jolts and squeals. "No!"

"Didn't you!" Relentless fingers squiggle and scritch and play, all of Sam's nerves perking up. He tries to get away, but Dean's practically on top of him, leaning over Sam's back and joyfully tormenting him.

Sam loves it.

"No, I didn't, I didn't," Sam can hardly contain the _fit_ of laughter bubbling out of him. "I swear!"

Look at them, playing games, just like the good ol' days. How long had it been since they had this much _fun?_ A few years, maybe?

He jerks and twitches and rocks, trying to get out of Dean's hold, his laughter gone and turned into raspy sobs. "Stop, stop."

Dean chuckles and gives in, straightening out and pulling himself up off Sam.

It's only then that Sam realizes how tired he is, how drained from the day. Out of breath, he stays there, head resting on Dean's thigh, practically sprawled in his lap, and closes his eyes.

He feels Dean rub soothing hands along his back, _up, down, up, down,_ the fabric of his shirt swishing and riding up. It feels so nice, so gentle after that amusing torture session. Sam sighs deeply in content, feeling himself start to drift off.

Sleep tugs at the corners of his eyelids, persistently pulling him dizzyingly down.

"C'mon, kiddo." Dean shifts, and Sam gets brought back a little.

Sam grumbles something unintelligible as Dean picks up his shoulders.

"Get into your sleeping bag."

"Wanna go in yours," Sam practically slurs his words he's so tired, and he doesn't really know what he's saying either. All he knows is that he feels better when he can touch Dean when he sleeps. Okay, that sounded really, _really_ weird but that's not how... oh fuck it. He's too tired to entertain his right mind right now.

"You wanna sleep in mine?" Dean questions, and Sam hopes to god that that's not weird. Dean doesn't have his weirded-out voice on so that's a good sign.

"Yeah, s'warm in there."

Dean laughs. "Such a dork." He scoops Sam up and unzips his sleeping bag while Sam waits, eyes slowly drifting shut again. "Okay, c'mon."

They crawl in together, Sam's nose squishing in the crook of Dean's shoulder while Dean zips it up all the way. And it's like a furnace, both of their heat combining to form a little cocoon of warmth amongst the bitter cold night in the wild. He breathes in Dean's shirt and smells the woodsy ash from the fire and something else that's purely Dean — a sweet musk that Sam knows is from the deodorant he always wears, been wearing the same brand since he was fifteen.

 _I'd rather be a forest than a street,_ Sam hears his thoughts meld into the wistful melodies of Simon and Garfunkel as Dean's arms wrap around his back and pull him close. _The earth beneath my feet..._ Hot breath blows over him like a sweet comforting wind that rocks him to a long awaited sleep.


	4. Undisclosed Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another insightful campfire leads to something very unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY a new chapter! See, I told you I haven't forgotten about this story!  
> I know it's a short chapter and pretty much nothing really happens, or rather things start to happen and then it ends, but I wanted to get it up just to let you guys know that I'm still alive and yes, I'm still writing it.  
> Enjoy. :)  
> (Please don't comment simply stating "more!", it will not make me write any faster unfortunately haha)
> 
>    
> 

It rains the next day. Not just rains — pours. Which meant if they had any hopes of doing anything fun and possibly adventurous today those hopes were regrettably shattered. Anyway, the good thing was; in the shelter of the pines you didn't get as wet as you did anywhere else so they were okay with being a little damp. The only thing that was a bummer was the air was too humid to have a fire so it wasn't only damp but cold, too.

Sam and Matt end up playing a two-player game of soccer (nearly impossible, you'd think, but as a matter of fact pretty darn fun) with an old battered ball Matt apparently brings with him on every hike. It's convenient not only as a way to stay warm but an active way to pass the time. They get dirty with the ground all damp and squishy as it is, splashes of mud up stretching up their shins and getting in the creases of their knees.

Sam notices Dean talking with Scott for over an hour while he and Matt kick around the ball, but they're just out of ear-reach and Sam can't catch any words or glimpses of conversation, especially over the sound of his own heavy breathing and the patter of their combined wet feet hitting the ground over and over. Still, he can't help being paranoid when it comes to possible impending danger. It's like, ingrained in his being or something. He hates it. And he hates that Dean's almost laughing with Scott, cheeky grin on both their faces like they're both in on the funniest damn joke in the world. I mean, what the hell?

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

The murky sky only clears up when night falls. Sam could tell because he can start to see the stars again. That means the worst of it is over and tomorrow is going to be another beautiful sunny day.

 

The nightly campfires were starting to become a ritual of theirs. They'd all get into warmer, cozier clothes (or huddle under a blanket cocoon if it was a particularly cold night) and gather in the center of the campground to eat, talk, drink and play games.

The conversation topics were usually kept relatively light and friendly. Sam would listen to them banter back and forth about current political conflicts, sure, but things never really got too heated. And if they did, they were still amusing to listen to because one of the guys would throw a joke at the other and everybody would laugh it off.

Tonight, however, the conversation topic of choice somehow slides into a-little-too-personal-for-comfort "who's dating who" territory and Sam can't help but squirm uncomfortably. Luckily, for him, Dean's the focal point tonight.

"What's the longest relationship you've ever been in?" Jerry asks Dean from across the fire, lounging on his back, beer in hand.

They've all already shared their relationship (horror and romantic) stories, some of which were relatively interesting and involved in-depth descriptions of a bedroom decorated in every way possible with horses (an over the top obsession of one of Matt's ex-girlfriends), and some made Sam long for something similar; someone to hold on to at night, someone to do cute things with like buy each other stuff and leave little notes to each other in the morning. He's just always seen that kind of thing as completely out of reach, like he wasn't allowed it. It was the most normal thing in the world but he couldn't have it because... because he couldn't have _normal._

Dean kind of laughs. Then he tightens his lips up and shrugs.

Matt perks up. "You don't mean— You don't mean _never,_ do you?"

"I just..." Dean adjusts his position on the hard ground and raises his shoulders again. "I just don't have time for that."

Scott snickers. "Dude, how could you not have time for it? What do you _do?_ "

Dean's eyes flicker cautiously over to Sam for a second, forgetting that he still has to keep some guard up. He smiles to cover his slip up. "Nah, I just mean I'm helping out my dad and uncle a lot lately, you know, I'm needed at the garage. I got a lot on my mind ever since I finished school."

It was complete bullshit, but if there was one thing Dean was good at, that was it. He was the bullshitting reigning champion since 1990.

Everybody bought it, and even expressed their sympathy. "Sucks, man. You're really missing out. You need to _make_ time for it." Jerry adds, but Sam's only watching Dean.

The corners of his lips are still raised, but his eyes aren't smiling anymore when he says "yeah..." under his breath.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

Sam's arms rest above the slippery taffeta of his sleeping bag; he's still not sure if he's hot or cold, so this is a happy medium. Dean hasn't started with his heavy breathing cycle yet which tells Sam he's still awake, which is odd because usually within the first two minutes of hitting the pillow he's out. Not tonight.

Sam wonders if Dean's thinking about the same things he is, which have an awful lot to do with the conversation that took place at the campfire tonight. He saw the look on Dean's face, and he couldn't tell what he was thinking. If what Jerry and the guys were saying really got to him or not. Sam was just glad they didn't confront _him_ about girls and relationships and all that. He wouldn't have much to say. And he's definitely not as good a liar as Dean.

Sam bunches up the thin material in his fists. It makes a light scratching sound. "Dean?"

Dean doesn't stir next to him, but answers immediately. "Yeah?"

Sam chews on his lip. "Do you ever... want it? ...Y'know... The whole relationship thing?" Somewhere deep inside of him there's an answer he secretly hopes to hear, and another he's terrified of hearing. Dean is Sam's north. His beginning, his end. The thought of Dean possibly having someone else to spend all his time and energy on is... well, a thought Sam would rather not think about.

Dean lets out a small breath. "I don't know, sometimes."

Sam shifts around in the chilly sleeping bag, pant-legs riding up around his knees, goosebumps forming on his skin.

"Sometimes I think about wanting someone..." Dean continues. "About having someone close to you who knows all your dirty secrets, and who... y'know, loves you anyway and all that bullshit. But then I remember that my unwillingness to drag someone else into this mess definitely outweighs those feelings." He laughs, contemplating. "Check me out, sounding all wise and shit."

It makes Sam smile.

"How about you?" He hears Dean ask him, and the question catches him off-guard. Dean never discusses these things with Sam. Sam always just thought it was because he was still too young and Dean didn't see him as mature enough yet to confront the intimidating topic of women.

"Me? I, uh... Yeah." Turns out he's even more shy about it than he thought. God knows why. He was inexperienced. That had to be it. And Dean was... well, anything but. "I've never even kissed anyone," he says in order to explain himself for what was going on inside his head, and the smile that creeps up on his face when he thinks about his lips touching someone else's, all warm and soft, tells him Dean's probably right about the whole immature thing.

"Really?" He can hear Dean smiling too. And if there was any chance for this trip to somehow send Sam through a transitional metamorphosis into adulthood, that chance just blew out the flap of tent that keeps wafting in the wind.

"Yeah, really."

"But you've thought about it, right?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Sam squeaks, because he hasn't been living under a rock for the majority of his life. Obviously he's thought about it. It just wasn't a topic that particularly interested him, especially not on days when he was expected to spend hours at the local library with his face shoved in between endless old-smelling books. Which was pretty often.

"Alright, well, kissing's overrated anyway," Dean starts, putting on his dark, casual voice. "It's sex you wanna watch out for. Has a tendency of reaching its spindly fingers out and pulling you in and before you know it, your innocence — _poof_ _—_ out the window."

Just the mention of sex; Dean mentioning _sex_ and the sound of his voice has Sam's blood temperature rising and his breaths deepening. His palms get all sweaty and the shorts under his wrinkled-up pants start sticking to his thighs, humid and uncomfortable.

"How often have you done it?" Sam asks even though his saliva feels thick. They've talked about it a few times before, if you could even call it that; mostly Dean jokes about all of the colorful women he's been with and occasionally brags about his experience as only an older brother would, but the truth is Sam's curious. The closest Sam's gotten to having his private parts groped by another human being are the daily sparring sessions he holds with Dean back home, the ones Dad enforces on them when he's too busy to pay attention, and the ones that spontaneously erupt on their own, usually at the end of long, long days.

Dean snorts, then Sam can hear what can only be him turning on his side to face him. "Plenty."

Sam kind of huffs, refusing to turn. He was looking for a lot more than a one-word answer, but then again, this was _Dean._ What did Sam expect? _Sex 101?_

"Why, you interested?"

Sam's body jumps, his stomach flip-flopping in the process. "Interested in what?"

"My sex life, loser," Dean snickers, prodding Sam's arm over the bunches of sleeping bag in between them. The gesture and the realization of what Dean meant makes Sam relax, feeling a little stupid for where his mind wandered off to.

"Not really, I just... I was just curious. You know, you always talk about it."

"No I don't," Dean refutes, confused. Everything he says always sounds like the final word.

"I have nothing to compare it to, so, y'know, it wouldn't matter if you told me." Sam's completely rambling now, and it's beginning to sound a little strange. Still, he can't get his lips to shut up. "Considering I've never even _kissed_ anyone," he kind of awkwardly laughs at himself but it sounds like some childish attempt to cover up some suggestive thoughts, even though right now he's not even sure he's _having_ suggestive thoughts, and what the hell those thoughts might be.

"Okay, fine. Fine." Dean gets up on his elbow and inches closer to Sam's pillow. A small gust of warmth hits Sam on the cheek but he's still not turning. He'd probably be nose-to-nose with Dean if he turned. Dean's obviously got something very private to tell Sam about his sex life. The proximity alone, the way he can make out from the corner of his eye the way Dean's t-shirt is snugly settled around his bicep, the way his breath is all heavy and hot right by his ear, it's making Sam's blood rush fast and his fingers and toes tingle.

"Want me to kiss you, Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam practically _squeaks,_ pitch all over the place. A huge wave of hot-and-sticky washes over him but he's scared to kick the sleeping bag off. There could be things happening down there that would mortify the both of them.

"Well, you keep talking about how you've never been kissed. I just figured." It's the most casual conversation in the world for Dean. Sam doesn't know how he does it. "Forget I said anything. Night, you dork." Dean falls back on his side in one swift motion, and Sam's left gaping.

Sam risks a glance over, Dean's head is facing away. He's acting as if he's already asleep. This whole thing is fucking ridiculous. As if that's what Sam wanted when he was talking about kissing. As if he wants his first kiss to be his _brother._ With his stupid arms and his stupid t-shirt and his stupid body.

_Crap._

"Dean?"

Dean just groans in response. It seems like a put-on.

Sam swallows thick. "I... I want you to." His voice is quiet, resolute. It's the first time Sam can remember baring this much of himself to Dean, being this open, even to _himself._ It's kind of a liberating feeling. All of the jitters momentarily dissipate and there's nothing but stillness inside the tent and a fear of disturbing it. He wonders how Dean knew exactly what he was thinking even before he knew it himself.

Dean turns back, props himself up on his elbow again and this time Sam looks. He turns his head slightly and sees Dean right freaking there. And that's when all of his nerves manage to squirm back in. They shouldn't though. They shouldn't even be present. Sam hates that they are. Hates that Dean seems so composed and Sam can barely _move,_ fingers clutching the sleeping bag for dear life, upper-thighs tense and stiff.

Dean's hot and gentle puffs of air hit his forehead, their eyes move to meet each other and Sam tries to will his body to relax. The pools of familiar hazel, even in this dim light, offer him solidity and comfort in an otherwise intimidating situation.

"You sure?" Dean asks him simply. The control and easiness in his voice settles Sam enough to manage a nod.

Dean inches closer and that's when Sam panics a little because _what if Dean thinks he sucks at kissing?_ He probably does, considering his lack of practice in the field. _Oh god,_ this was gonna end with complete and utter humiliation. Dean was never gonna live this down, he was always gonna remember this moment and make fun of him for it. Things would never be the same, things —

"Close your eyes," Dean says on a laugh.

Sam obeys, despite the influx of contradictory thoughts swimming around in his brain. He lets his eyes flutter shut and from there it might as well be a dream. His lips are only slightly parted, his tongue lax and thick in his mouth. He feels Dean's breath ghosting over his lips, temperature rising with every passing second. The anticipation hurts. It makes the hairs on his arms stand up and his gripping fingers cramp and he's not sure how much longer he can hold the breath he's only now realized he's keeping in.

And that's when he feels it. The soft, slow press of two cushiony lips against his own. They move slowly into a more favorable position so that they slot together with Sam's perfectly, gliding smooth and wet against one another. Sam tastes Dean's tongue on the next movement, feels the humidity of his breath leaving his nose. And then all too quickly Dean pulls back, breaks the contact.

Sam almost follows him instinctively.

_No. No, it can't be over. That can't be it._

When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean's just staring down at him. Sam hadn't even realized but Dean was practically on top of him now. Dean chews on his lower lip, which is a habit of his that's usually reserved for feelings of uncertainty or some sort of deep pondering.

In one movement, before his anxieties have time to rear their ugly head in yet again, he reaches up and pulls Dean back down by the neck, locking their lips together again. It's unceremonious eagerness, like a kid unwrapping his Christmas presents, and it's miraculous how in all of ten seconds Sam actually managed to _miss_ the feeling of kissing Dean.

It's home. It's comfort beyond measure. Dean's warm, capable body over him, the way he keeps gently rocking into every kiss. It's unfathomable bliss. It's a place Sam could live forever. His body feels like it's on fire, like he's this mass of uncontrollable heat, moving on the most basic instinct.

And then it's gone again. Abruptly, Dean pulls away and rolls onto his back next to Sam. He just stops it.

Sam's lips start to tingle at the loss. He doesn't know what to say. His thoughts start to soar. _What if Dean thought he sucked at kissing? Was Dean regretting ever asking to kiss him?_

He reaches up and ghosts two fingers over his thrumming lips, they seem to be vibrating in time with his heartbeat. The quiet of the tent is no longer peaceful and true.

Dean clears his throat loudly. It startles Sam so much he jumps a little. "There, you got your kiss. Now go to sleep, kay?" His voice is strained.

Sam swallows. He still has the taste of Dean in his mouth when he says "Mmk." He just wants to roll over towards Dean and curl up in his warmth like the other night but he has no idea what Dean's thinking right now. If he even wants to touch him. If he ever wants to touch him again... Suddenly Sam feels really cold.

It's clammy under the sleeping bag and between his legs, there's a familiar heaviness at his groin which is hard to ignore but hell if he isn't gonna try his damnedest. He turns on his side to gather more warmth, away from Dean, and shuts his eyes.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean offers simply.

Oh god, here it comes. The _let's never speak of this again_ speech or the _what happens in the tent stays in the tent, or so help me_ threat _._

"Yeah?" Sam replies with faltering composure.

"Don't overthink this."

Sam sighs, then lets his eyes fall shut again. For now, that's as much reassurance as he needs to quiet his mind enough to drift into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo credit:  
> [jonahreenders](http://jonahreenders.tumblr.com/)


	5. The Lookout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys go up to the Lookout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! It's been a while, huh? I'm sorry, don't kill me, this chapter is relatively short - but hey at least I'm writing it! Good news is it's picking up momentum again after a long break. See? I told you. :)

Dean awakes slowly the next morning to something moving on his back. His first instinct is to turn around and kill it, it feels like it could be a pretty darn huge bug, one that you wouldn't be able to put a name to that lurks in forests like these. But as he regains consciousness more and more he begins to realize that the patterns it's making are too intentional. So he waits.

It's spelling something.

It's a little finger and it's spelling something.

When Dean realizes what Sam's writing, he panics. He pretends to still be asleep, and it's only when he's certain Sam's rolled back over that he feigns waking up again; stretching, yawning, the works. He sits up and glances over at Sam who blinks his eyes open in Dean's direction, disheveled hair sticking up in the back against the pillow, face all puffy and morning-fresh. His rosy lips curve up into a tired smile.

"Morning," Dean greets him, crouching out of the sleeping bag.

"Morning," Sam's voice sounds just as happy-groggy as he looks.

Dean hurriedly leaves the tent with _K-I-S-S M-E_ still tingling in trails on his back.

 

٭ ٭ ٭

 

They all consensually decide over breakfast to take a hike up today to the "Lookout" as they call it - the tallest hill around the sight that has a vast view of the land and, according to the guys, a steep drop to the lake directly below. Dean's enthusiastic about it, it seems, so Sam kind of just goes along with it even though, if he's being honest, he's been a little unsure about the whole thing ever since he heard Scott talking about it a couple days ago.

Nevertheless, they all get on their boots and hit the trail.

It's all uphill, sharp jutting rocks scattered amongst twigs and branches and it's a difficult path but challenging and exhilarating to Sam. He's starting to like it more and more; feeling the crunch of the leaves and sticks under his boots, being surrounded by the embrace of the tall trees, using them for leverage. Dean tells him to be careful, it's a long way down if you slip, but Sam's not even thinking of that. Besides, he's always careful.

 

They make it to the clearing and it's only when they emerge from the trees that Sam realizes just how high they are. It's breathtaking, the view is like nothing he's ever seen. The water, glistening and vast, reflects tiny shards of sunshine even from all the way up here, and beyond that, nothing but trees and mountaintops and white streaks of distant clouds. You can literally see _everything._ It's all green and blue and gold, like an oil painting, colors vividly complimenting each other. _Nature's masterpiece,_ Sam thinks. They all stand there taking it in and catching their breath in silence. It's like even a whisper would disturb the air up here.

Someone screams. A wolf howl kind of sound, like a whoop into the peaceful air for the hell of it.

Sam's heart jumps.

Jerry? No, Scott.

Everybody else chuckles.

Then, Scott starts stripping. "Alright, who's with me?" He kicks his boots off and unbuckles his belt, then lets his jeans fall open and collapse to the ground.

Everybody's just exchanging skeptical grins between each other.

He doesn't actually mean — there is no way in _hell_ Sam's jumping off this cliff. There's a little chaotic fun, sure, but then there's total suicide. And this is definitely the latter.

"Scott, you've never jumped this before. You sure you wanna do this, man? It's a long way down." Jerry seems a little worried, trying to make sure his brother's in his right mind.

Scott just grins, getting the shirt off his back. He stands there in his boxers, pumping himself up by rubbing his hands together. "I figure it's time to start living. Who's with me?"

Matt sizes up the drop. "Ah, what the hell." He strips too, leaving his clothes in a jumbled pile beside him.

"Dean?" Scott asks.

Sam's eyes dart over to Dean who's walking hesitantly to the edge, considering the drop. Scott joins him, putting a hand on his back. They exchange a few words but Sam can't hear what they're saying.

"Dean—" He starts to say but no one's listening.

It isn't long before Dean's shedding his clothes as well.

Sam instantly goes into panic mode. He crowds Dean and attempts to change his mind. "Are you crazy?"

Dean's got this smug, couldn't-care-less face on as he unfastens his belt. "What? C'mon, it's just a little jump."

"Little?! Dean, it's gotta be like over 500 feet." He then tries to hit a nerve he knows will have some affect on Dean. "Dad would kill you."

Dean groans. "Stop being so dramatic. Besides," he peels the t-shirt from his back, "Dad isn't here."

"Yeah, but I am," Sam reaches for Dean's wrist. He doesn't care how desperate he looks. If Dean jumps off this cliff he's likely never to come back. There's no way Sam's letting that happen. He's always so stupid and reckless, Sam hates it. "I don't want you — _please_."

Dean glances down at where Sam's gently tugging. "Sam. Stop worrying, okay? I'll be fine."

Okay so maybe Sam was just being a tad overprotective and dramatic. I mean, it's not like there were sharp rocks at the bottom or anything. Right? He feels Scott staring at them from a few feet away. Reluctantly, he releases Dean's wrist. Dean ruffles his hair.

They each take a running start, Scott fearlessly jumping first. Dean's next and Sam practically chases after him, watching him disappear off the edge. Matt follows, crying out the whole way down.

Sam gnaws on his lips until they're practically bleeding, pacing. Now that it's just Sam and Jerry up there it's quiet, nothing but the sharp wind roaring in Sam's ears, almost as loud and ear-splitting as his own pulse. Dean was such a _jerk,_ like did he even _care_ at all about his life? Why did Sam always have to be the one to tell him not to do stupid things? It was ridiculous! And what kind of sick thrill did one get from seeing their life flash before their eyes anyway? Fuck Dean and his stupid death wish. Sam's had it.

He chooses to be angry because it beats being absolutely terrified. Jerry tries to soothe him with small talk but Sam's responses are clipped and aggressive.

 

He's not sure how long its been. An hour? An hour and a half? He's peered over edge of the cliff a few times but there was no one in sight, just the gently swaying water below. He ate an entire bag of trail mix, keeping his thoughts distracted with eating. He starts to feel almost sick with anticipation. Just as he's kicking a rock in no general direction, he hears the snapping of twigs behind him. He spins around and sees three figures making labored steps up the path. Matt emerges first, grinning from ear to ear. Sam darts forward and sees Dean finally, taking heavy strides and damp but otherwise completely fine and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Dean, you freaking idiot—" He starts to say. But Dean doesn't look too thrilled or exhilarated, actually. Not like Matt and Scott do. He looks... pissed. Is that right? His jaw's tight, brows furrowed in deep deliberation. He walks towards Sam while the others freak out together about how "awesome" it was to feel a rush like that.

"Yeah, yeah," he retorts, rushed-like, then leads Sam away from the clearing with a firm hand on his shoulder. "C'mere, I need to talk to you."

He's still practically dripping, face and hair damp and Sam scans him for anything else that seems off. There's a dark smudge on his cheek, right under his eye. At first, Sam thinks it's just dirt but the closer he gets it starts to look like a bruise. Also, he keeps wiping at his nose and sniffing. It's _bleeding_. _How_ _—??_

"Are you okay?" The familiar uneasy feeling in Sam's stomach returns.

"No. Sam," Dean takes a breath, stopping amongst a cluster of trees. He wipes a streak of red from his nose again. "Scott just tried to kill me."

 

xxx

 

The jump hadn't been bad. And sure, Dean may have had a brief moment of _what the hell am I doing_ but it only lasted a fraction of a second, and as soon as he felt the invigorating rush of the wind at his back, the strong pull of gravity, the breathless kind of vibration in his chest, he completely abandoned any and all hesitation.

No, the jump had been fine. The water cascaded all around him, cool and icy, and immediately he began swimming upwards toward the surface. But something stopped him. He felt a firm grip close around his ankle, tight and death-like, and it kept tugging him downward as he tried to swim. He opened his eyes and saw the surface. It was an automatic reaction for his body to be drawn to it, arms flailing under the water, but the vise at his ankle was relentlessly yanking. Dean reached down, trying to pry the hand apart, and that was when he saw who the hand belonged to. It was Scott. The goddamn creep was trying to drown him! All he could think was Sammy had been right, Scott was a freak alright. But then he saw the unmistakable manifestation of huge, deep black eyes, and nothing could stop that image from searing permanently into Dean's brain. With his other leg, he kicked out right at Scott's face, and luckily it gave him enough time to swim to the surface and take in a huge gasp of breath. But seconds later he was being pulled back under. Dean fought and thrashed, water splashing around, getting in his nose, his mouth. He coughed and spat, violently throwing punches once Scott was above the water too, and goddamn if fighting a demon wasn't the hardest thing to do in a _lake._ It's like every movement took twice the effort. Scott dug into his shoulders, trying to push him down, ugly bleeding grimace spread across his teeth, and still Dean fought. He swung his legs up and wrapped them around Scott's neck in a choke-hold, twisting his body so Scott was pulled under, but it's like the thing had some sort of superhuman strength because he managed to crank his neck and contort his body so that he broke free of the hold and got to the surface again, throwing Dean off of him.

"You aren't getting away with this," Dean bit out, water spilling through his teeth, staring down those empty, hostile black eyes. It dawned on Dean then that his plan all along was probably to get Dean to jump, drown him, and then pretend the whole thing was an accident. It would be clean. Easy. But there was one thing Dean couldn't figure out. Why the hell was this demon here, and why did it want Dean dead?

They continued to struggle, Scott throwing a few above-water punches and Dean landing a few on his neck, his jaw.

"Hey! Hey! Guys!" Dean had completely forgotten Matt had jumped too. He was too far to see what was really going on, but he probably saw the two of them struggling, and he was beginning to swim over.

"Easy, now, Dean, you don't want to spoil everyone's fun, now, do you?" The demon sneered, his eyes blinking and changing back to blue.

Matt approached them before Dean had time to think about what the fuck to do.

 

Dean thought about his options on the way back up to Sam. What was there to do? Preform a full-on exorcism right there on the campground? In front of the other guys? He wasn't even sure how to do one, he'd only watched Dad a handful of times, several of them when he wasn't even supposed to be watching. Plus, he didn't exactly carry around the written ritual in his back pocket. He only had the basics on him; salt, silver bullets, y'know, the kind of stuff that's fast and easy. This was a whole other league of monster. Even Dad was afraid of these sons of bitches. And Sammy had only seen one in person a couple of times, if that. He was just a kid. They were vulnerable.

They were in trouble.


	6. Fear and Lusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try and figure out what to do about their "situation," things get steamy in the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, check me out. Two chapters in a week. This is new, huh? (I blame the fact that I've been in bed all morning and afternoon during my girly time HMM)

"A demon? I knew it!" Sam exclaims after Dean describes the glossy black eyes he laid witness to in the lake, still trying to keep his voice down.

Dean's eyes dart over to where the other guys are standing around, gathering their things and getting their clothes back on. "I know, I know. Shh."

"What are we going to do?" Sam practically stutters over the words.

Dean slides a hand back through his hair. He shakes his head. "There's not much we can do. We have nothing with us for this."

"But Dad told you to be prepared—"

"I didn't expect a freaking _demon!_ " Dean's voice is hushed but it still sounds like a shout. He paces over to a tree and rests a hand on it, head drooping. "I mean, what can we do? I don't know the exorcism off the top of my head, Sam."

Sam's hands are sweating. He hasn't really had time to consider the fact that they're in deep shit, and only recognizes it when he sees the panic in Dean's mannerisms, hears it in his big brother's voice. It's rare that Dean doesn't have an answer.

"I mean... we could call Dad?" Sam suggests, coming over to Dean.

"What? No. Are you kidding?" Dean grimaces. "I can just imagine what he'd say." (Dean puts on a false, deeper, southern drawl.) "I leave you boys alone for five days — _five days_ — not even a _week_ and you get yourselves in shit as deep as your necks." He shakes his head. "No. We have to handle this on our own. Plus, he's in Wisconsin. That's two states over. There's no way he's driving all the way back here just to save our incompetent asses."

"But it's a _demon,_ Dean."

"We can handle it, okay?" Dean's voice goes hard, eyes narrowing down on Sam.

Sam wants to say _how?_ but he's not sure Dean would have an answer to that.

"Hey, boys. You two making out over there?" It's Scott's voice. Sam's skin crawls knowing that it's not Scott anymore. The poor guy is being possessed. He doesn't deserve this. Scott was a good guy. Sam glances at Dean once more, hoping that against all odds they could figure out a way to save him.

 

xxx

 

They walk back to the campground in a palpable awkward silence that seems to last an eternity — Jerry and Matt trying to make small talk and lighten the mood and lift the damper, Scott (or, the demon) trying to crack unhumorous too-dark jokes which even Matt and Jerry are starting to find a little uncomfortable.

They're pretty much forced to sit around the campfire that night and pretend everything's normal for Matt and Jerry's sake, while they ponder their options.

Sam and Dean sit together, exchanging hushed conversation. They keep glancing over at Scott, who seems to be observing them with steady, unblinking eyes.

"Why don't you share with the group?" Scott interrupts their conversation. "You two have been acting so _weird_ all day. Am I the only one who thinks so?" He's doing it on purpose— trying to call them out, to separate them and to hinder any plans they're devising together. To draw the attention over to them instead of him.

Dean throws his plan back in his face without a second thought. "Oh, we're fine, _Scott._ As a matter of fact, we're great." He gets this smug, confident smile on, even though Sam's not sure any of it's authentic. Nevertheless, it seems to get under Scott's skin.

"I'm pretty tired, though. How about you, Sammy?" Dean asks, the simplicity in his tone and words making everything seem casual.

Sam tries to mirror it. "Yeah, me too. All that hiking seemed to really wear me out."

Matt and Jerry seem to not suspect anything's out of the ordinary, so it's a start in the right direction of keeping them in the dark.

 

They retire to their tent, Dean crawling in after Sam and zipping up the front hastily. Sam huddles inside, bringing his knees to his chest. He watches Dean dig in his duffle bag, pulling out a cylinder can and popping the top open.

"I'm scared, Dean..." Sam admits unashamedly, hearing the tremble in his own voice.

Dean's at work pouring salt down from corner to corner in their tent, sprinkling it swiftly so that it encircles the entire thing. "I know. Don't worry, this'll protect us. I'm gonna stay up but you can get some sleep."

Sam shakes his head, curling his toes in under him. "What are we gonna do?"

Dean closes the salt and tosses it back in his bag. He digs around for something else. "I don't know. But we're getting out of here. First thing in the morning before the rest of the guys get up."

"Wh—" Sam looks intently at Dean, confused with what he's implying. "And just... just leave Scott like this?"

Dean retrieves what he was looking for, a thin chain that dangles between his fingers. He brings it up to Sam's neck and leans in. "We have no choice, Sam." He fastens the thing at the back of Sam's neck and lets it drop, the pendant hanging just below his collarbone. Sam looks at it and recognizes the familiar image of the Archangel Michael, defeating Lucifer with his divine strength and a gleaming, golden sword. "I promised Dad I would bring you back safe and sound and that's what I'm gonna do."

Sam looks over Dean's face. "It doesn't feel right. I can't — I don't just want to leave without helping Scott. Can't we call Dad? He can help us—"

"We've been through this," Dean's tone goes hard again, rolling his eyes.

"Okay well what about Bobby?" Sam's words are coming out faster than his thoughts are arranging. "We can call him. He can read us the exorcism, or —"

"You can't just _read_ an exorcism! You have to know what the hell you're doing, you have to be experienced."

Sam doesn't know what to say. They really are out of options.

"We're not just gonna stay here like sitting ducks. I'm not gonna wait for it to try to kill me again. We're leaving."

Sam's dampened eyes drop. Dean's word was final. Always was. He was older, he was in charge. Sam didn't always agree with him, but he did keep them safe.

"Get some sleep," Dean softens his voice.

Sam lies back, getting under the sleeping bag. He swallows. His nerves are still on edge, this fluttery unsettling feeling in his chest, his stomach. It's gonna be pretty much impossible to sleep, but still he shuts his eyes.

A few minutes later he hears Dean taking something out of his bag. His eyes flutter open and over to Dean. He's got a book open and a pen in his hand. Sam's never seen it before. He watches silently as Dean writes in the book, the warm light from the electrical lantern reflecting soft yellow on the pages. He seems so concentrated at first, but then he notices Sam staring and looks up.

"What's that?" Sam asks in a scratchy sleepy voice.

"S'just a journal," Dean replies lowly, tipping the pen in between his fingers.

Sam sits up, suddenly curious, letting the sleeping bag fall to his waist. "What do you put in it?"

Dean shrugs. "Case stuff. Things I want to remember about hunts. What kills what."

Sam reaches for it. "Can I see?" Without a response, Sam slowly drags it over and flips through the pages. He never even knew Dean was interested in this kinda thing. He thinks it's cute, the way he's so willing to follow in Dad's footsteps and also admirable. It almost makes him want to be doing the same thing, keeping track of hunts and jotting down monster tips in some old, beaten up journal. Almost. There are some drawings, symbols, some spells and incantations, some memories that come up from past hunts, either written or illustrated, just scribbles here and there that Sam finds fascinating. He stumbles on one that he remembers vividly. It's a sketch of a Jubokko they encountered two years ago; a blood-sucking tree spirit in grotesque human-form (if it could even be called that), on a hunt that had nearly cost Sam his life.

"I remember this," Sam marvels, fingering over the drawing of the tree-person; sharp, jutting teeth and wrinkly, parched skin. Dean had drawn blood dripping from its mouth in black, gloopy scribbles. "I almost lost my arm."

"I know," Dean looks tired, pained upon recollecting the memory.

Sam scans through the entry, eyes skimming over the words. Dean discusses the hunt, and then comments on how Sam was injured. It sounds worse the way Dean describes it.

 _Almost ripped his arm clean off,_ and _so much blood..._

"Alright, Sammy. C'mon, hand it over." Dean reaches for it, but Sam just nudges it a little out of reach. He reads on.

_Sammy doesn't deserve any of this. He's just a little kid. I still remember reading to him, tucking him in at night. Now, when I look in his eyes I'm starting to see my own; eyes that have seen death, eyes that have seen the torment of suffering and of pain, loss._

Sam's eyes start to water.

"Sam..."

_I don't want any of this for him. I really don't. He's good. More than anything, I don't want that spark that's in him, that's there when he argues about Dad and about hunting, to extinguish. I don't want to lose him the way Dad lost Mom. I can't._

The entry ends.

Sam takes in an unsteady, quivering breath. He looks up at Dean, who's well aware of what the entry spoke of. He's not meeting Sam's eyes.

Sam shuts the journal. "Dean, I..." He swallows, gathering his thoughts in order to sound coherent. Dean's never spoken any of this aloud, and Sam knows why. It's hard to find words to express how much you care about someone and worry about them. "I felt the same way... today. With you and the lake."

A small, assuring smirk appears on the corners of Dean's lips.

Sam hands him the book back. "You're..." Dean meets his eyes. "You're all I've got. And I was worried... I was so worried you... you wouldn't come back." Sam's heart feels light, butterflying around in his chest.

Dean clears his throat gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam pulls Dean in, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's neck. He feels Dean's warm, supporting hands at his back, holding him close. Sam's wet eyes streak Dean's t-shirt, lips closing tightly against his shoulder. Dean holds his head, stroking through his hair.

"I promise," he lulls into Sam's ear. Sam shuts his eyes tight, gripping a fistful of Dean's shirt and never letting go.

After Sam's calmed down significantly, Dean releases him and tells him to get some sleep.

Sam's tired, sure, but now that he's gotten that brief little taste of contact between him and Dean, he only craves it more. His strong brother, so tough but so gentle with him, it was like it was starting to become an addiction or something; touching Dean, being close to him. It never used to be this bad before, the need for it, but then again he never really knew it would feel _this good._ Especially kissing him. It was weird, but _they_ were weird anyway, and Sam was starting to like their weird. Or better yet, he was starting to just _not give a shit._

Sam falls back on his elbows. "Only if you sleep with me."

Dean just stares. "Sam, I have to..."

"Only for a little while. Please?"

Dean sighs. "Fine, only for a little while." He starts to unzip his own sleeping bag.

"No. Dean," Sam opens up his own and holds it up, inviting him in. " _With_ me."

Dean seems a little distraught at the boldness with which Sam is acting, but otherwise he crawls in without much more compulsion. Sam's senses crowd with _Dean;_ salty skin and warm, humid breath, the scent of sweat and stale campfire smoke arousing Sam in ways he's not even sure of. He pulls Dean close, wrapping half his body over him, pushing a leg between Dean's thighs and settling there for a moment.

Dean lets him. He just lets him, but Sam wants more. He crowds Dean, lying flat on top of him, their stomachs pressing into each other. He's rising and falling with Dean's breath, which is coming quick.

"Dean," Sam looks at him, their chins almost touching. Dean's eyes are uncertain, glazed over with a deep pondering that Sam can't read. Sam buries his face in Dean's neck. "I want you to hold me."

Dean exhales on a sigh. He doesn't make a move, so Sam takes his hand for him.

"Sam..."

Sam places Dean's hand on his lower back. _"Please..."_

Their noses brush. Finally Dean's strong arms wrap around him, tangling them together. Sam's able to breathe again, dragging his body against Dean's and responding to Dean's moving, rubbing hands. He feels the scratch of Dean's stubble against his cheek, feels his firm body under him, around him, and it's like he can't hold anything back anymore. Their lips meet, just a soft, slow drag at first, but then it's a kiss, a real _kiss,_ their mouths pressing into one another, wet and urgent and desperate. Sam's hips move around, slow circles at first. Dean groans into his mouth, vibrations thrumming against his chest. Sam clings on to his body with his own and pushes, feeling Dean getting hard against his groin.

They establish a steady, coordinated rhythm, Sam humming as Dean's hand finds its way lower, just ghosts over Sam's ass. Sam pushes into it, Dean's touch igniting little sparks all over his body. Their tongues play, lips smearing back and forth. Sam bites down as Dean squeezes him, fingers digging deep into his flesh. Their hips slot together, Sam's grinding down on Dean in more of an up-down back-forth motion now, chasing after something that couldn't come fast enough but that he sincerely hopes never comes so that this; this intimacy, this single fearless moment, could last forever.

They grunt, gasp and moan, tugging at each other, heated bodies sticking like glue, each movement more desperate and strenuous than the last, their bodies heavy, blood rushing south faster than they could keep up with.

They chase it and they find it together. It's pulled from them like a long, crashing wave, salt water and sand, thunder and rain. And then the soothing downpour that comes after, smooth and wet, sweetened honey that smears around in their underwear and seeps and sticks.

 

Sam could sleep for an eternity. He's almost out, so he hardly notices when Dean shifts out from under him to crawl out of the sleeping bag. He's barely awake when Dean strokes his cheek, removes the sticky hair from his face and tucks it gently behind his ear.

He's out before Dean tells him, in a soft, unwavering voice that _he'll always be there for him._ When he makes a resolute little promise... _that he's going to take care of him for the rest of his life._


	7. Dark Clouds and a Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm, and the calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay so I'm FINALLY done this fic, guys. I just looked back and it took me a year and two months to complete this. Ahah. I think that may go down as the longest time it's taken me to write a single fic (which isn't even that long in length). I had a hard time finding the inspo for this once it past the 5 month mark but regained it again towards the end - so that's one of the reasons! I'm just glad I had a chance to finish it properly and write it out the way I imagined it (for the most part). Sorry if the ending seems a little rushed. I just wanted to have it out and finished once and for all. Now that I do, I feel super relieved. :D  
> Maybe one of these days I will do a continuation series, since it does kind of leave things somewhat open-ended.   
> Enjoy!

There's barely a hint of an early morning glow outside the tent when Dean gently wakes Sam up, nudging his shoulder and whispering "Sammy, c'mon" tenderly, faintly.

Without the exchange of any further conversation, they pack their belongings hastily inside the tent. Sam throws on a sweater and light coat, preparing for the hike back to the car.

Sam glances up from slipping on his boots. "We leaving the tent here?" He figures it would take too much time to take it down, and that it's not worth potentially losing either one of their lives over.

"Yeah," Dean says, after apparently coming to the same conclusion in his mind. "We gotta go."

They have enough bags to carry, anyway; Dean slings a hefty pack over his shoulders, his duffle in his hands, while Sam does the same with a couple of bags that are twice the size of him.

They glance once at the dispersed tents arranged in a cluster a short distance away. Without much deliberation, Sam supposes what Dean's final thoughts might be. Try to have a normal life, look what you get. Pretending to be ignorant to what's behind the dark veil won't last long, especially when you already know what's there. There's no getting away from it. Sam can practically hear his voice saying the words. _This'll never happen again._

 

They start down the path, boots crunching soil and rocks underfoot. Sam tries to keep up with Dean's hastened pace, and his concerned eyes meet Sam's fearful ones when he glances back every now and then. Halfway down the path, Dean keeps glancing over his shoulder. At first, Sam supposes it's to make sure Sam is right behind him. But, the more he keeps doing it, the more Sam starts to think Dean's paranoid that something _else_ might be on their tail.

"What is it?" Sam asks eventually, and Dean murmurs "thought I heard something. Stay close."

The sky's a bluish purple and the air's brisk, and the only sound Sam can hear is the lone, empty call of a sparrow overhead. His breath picks up pace as he takes shorter, quicker steps downhill. Dean's able to carry more weight, to take bigger steps, so that's the reason Sam seems to be lagging a little when Dean moves faster and faster. Dean thinks Sam's behind him the whole time, but the distance between them seems to just keep growing. Sam almost calls out for him to slow down, but he doesn't want to attract any unnecessary attention. He almost trips on a stupid rounded branch, so _typical,_ and glances down briefly as he catches himself. He looks back up to check where Dean is and that's when he feels something clap around his face and snap his neck back. The breath is knocked out of him, his limbs flying back. He gets flung on the ground, amongst the dirt and sticks and leaves so fast his head smacks hard against it. He gets sandwiched between his pack and the body suddenly crushing him. There is no resemblance of Scott left in the monster above him. Its black eyes, wide and bottomless, peer into his soul, threatening to swallow it up. Its snarl, cruel and wet almost seems to bite at him, so close, Sam strains away with all his might, pushing at the thing's chest. He panics, fear crippling him. All there is to do is try his best to fight the thing. He's not doing the best job, though. Its fingernails dig deep into Sam's cheeks, palm tight across his lips, preventing Sam from yelling out. It's hard to breathe.

The thing's eyes bulge. " _He wants you._ " It's voice is a raspy growl, something inhuman being forced from Scott's throat. " _I don't know why, but he wants you. So I'm gonna bring you to him._ "

Sam squirms, trying impossibly to breathe amongst everything, can't, trying to break free and also can't. He feels like a trapped insect, and the weight of the thing; its physical weight but also a different kind of weight, like a blackness starting to slowly crush his soul, bares so strongly down on Sam that he starts to see little purple spots clouding his vision. His eyes water, his pushing, straining hands close to giving in.

" _He's going to be so pleased with me._ "

And suddenly a gunshot cracks the air in two. Sam feels it in his chest, the vibration of it, so that at first he thinks he's shot. But then the thing loosens it's grip and looks up. Red spills from its shoulder, seeping through two layers of flannel. It glances down at the wound and starts to growl, deep and low in its throat, until its shouting at the top of its lungs. And then its neck tilts up and a thick, dark black smoke soars out of Scott's mouth. It's never ending. And the sound is like nothing Sam's ever heard. Screeching, crying, whirling howls, nails on a chalkboard.

And just like that Scott slumps over Sam, soaked in blood and weighing about a thousand pounds lighter.

"Sammy!" He hears Dean's voice coming towards him, infused with worry and concern.

"Dean!" Sam starts to get up, gently holding Scott's body. "We have to help Scott!"

Dean hurries over and pulls Scott's limp body up. "I got it, go get the others. You okay?"

Sam scrambles up, scraped knees and elbows, and nods quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Alright, go, hurry!"

 

xxx

 

The ambulance picks them up in the clearing where their cars are parked. Jerry holds Scott's arm and stands by as the technicians place Scott on the stretcher and lift him into the truck. Everyone is in a panic, demanding to know what happened.

Sam tells them he was shot by a hunter.

The Impala follows close behind down the narrow road on the way to the nearest hospital.

 

xxx

 

They're at the Clear Creek General, the initial fearful tension is through and Scott is being treated. The nurses take a look at Sam as well, even though he insists he's fine. They allow him to take a shower to wash away all the grime and dirt and blood caked on his body.

It's a small little white cubicle, with a single low-flow fixture jutting out of the wall and a drain at his feet. Sam rubs at his eyes. His head hurts from being thrown on the ground. The water runs a murky pinky brown. He must be bleeding somewhere. Ends of phrases echo back and forth in his mind as he shuts his eyes. _Wants you... Bring you to him..._

But who the hell was the demon even talking about? Somebody wanted _Sam?_ Please. Why him and not Dean or Dad? It was highly unlikely that he had understood the demon correctly. But if he had, and somebody — some _thing_ wanted Sam, then Dean practically being drowned to death was on him. It was his fault the demon took over Scott's body. _His fault_ for everything. The thought has goose pimples forming all over his back even under the hot stream. He's scared. If that was the case, then this was just the beginning. Would more people get hurt because of him?

He dries off and steps into the clean set of hospital scrubs laid out for him. He didn't want to wear them, but the clothes he arrived in were full of Scott's blood and dirt and were torn in several places. Dean's waiting outside the room, in the hallway. He's on the pay phone, just finishing up a conversation with someone. He hangs up and looks Sam over.

Sam's shoulders hang sluggishly low, his eyes glossy and heavy.

"I just got off the phone with Dad. Finished his case early after all. He's gonna meet us here," Dean tells him, coming toward him.

Sam just nods.

Dean tries to catch his gaze. "You okay?"

 _No_. Not okay. A demon just tried to kidnap him, his brother almost died, an innocent guy got possessed and shot in the arm and it was possibly all his fault. He was not okay.

Sam nods again.

Dean steps closer. "Hey, c'mere." Dean extends an arm and Sam huddles into it. Dean's arms wrap tightly and warmly around Sam, hands gently stroking his back. He breathes into Sam's wet hair. Sam sighs, closing his eyes for a moment.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean uses his tender, reassuring older brother voice to calm Sam in that way he always does. Sam's chin lifts a little to glance up at Dean.

"I promise."

Sam nods, accepting Dean's word and instantly feeling better. As long as he had Dean, he knew everything would work out.

 

Whether they spent the next couple of days at the hospital, helping Scott as he slowly regained his health, or whether they took off that night with Dad without looking back, everything would work out.


End file.
